


We Make This World Our Hell

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Angst, Codependency, Deconstruction, Depression, Drug Abuse, HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-23 01:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9633257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: *You’re the furthest thing from my happy ending,* he thinks at Curt, and wishes he had the nerve to say so aloud. *You’re my hell.*





	1. Past

**Author's Note:**

> This story is meant to explore the question, could Arthur Stuart and Curt Wild be happy? As a shipper, I obviously want to say yes, but the world of the movie, the differences between the characters, and the background of the 1980’s AIDS crisis (which I have tried my hardest to handle with respect) call that into question. This story deconstructs a lot of tropes I’ve seen, and used, in Curt/Arthur fic, which is why some passages or head canons may be similar to ones I’ve already used in writing this ship. However, I still ship these two hard and end up reconstructing the ship, or trying to, toward the end of this fic. On a different note, I’ve been rushing to start posting and have not had this beta read. It’s likely that I will make further corrections in future, as I work on the later chapters. Finally, the quote at the beginning is from Bob Dylan’s All Along the Watchtower, which was made famous by Jimi Hendrix (and used in Todd Haynes’s I’m Not There).

 

 

 

 

 

> “There must be some kind of way outta here,” said the joker to the thief,  
>  “There's too much confusion: I can't get no relief.”
> 
>   
>  “No reason to get excited,” the thief, he kindly spoke,  
>  “There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.  
>  But you and I, we've been through that, and this is not our fate,  
>  So let us stop talking falsely now: the hour's getting late...”

 

“What are you doing?” Arthur asked.

Startled, Curt dropped Arthur’s wallet back onto the table – but the damage was done.

“Nothing,” Curt said. The strain in his voice, however, told Arthur everything he needed to know. Arthur shook his head in disbelief.

“Was  _this_ why you wanted me here?” he asked. “So you could steal from me the minute my back was turned?”

If it was – if Arthur was right – then Curt had wanted Arthur to come over for almost the same reason Arthur had agreed to go. Arthur had needed to see for himself how much Curt had deteriorated, and confirm what he had feared for weeks, now, since he first noticed money missing from his wallet. That was why he'd contrived to go to the bathroom, but leave his things in plain sight. Obviously, he couldn’t ask Curt about the matter outright. Arthur had tried that when he suspected Curt of slipping away to fuck other people, or, if Arthur was very lucky, shoot up in the bathroom on a couple of their dates. Curt had joked about it, with uncharacteristic cruelty, until Arthur left in disgust and cabbed home. Yet he kept giving Curt second chances, and hoping for the best, until he realized someone was stealing from him. Arthur supposed he had to do  _something_ rather than let himself be used like that. 

“You don’t have to be such a fucking nag,” Curt spat, flinging a twenty-dollar bill back onto the table.

“Of course,” Arthur said, clenching a hand in his pocket. “ _I’m_ the one wronging you, because I don’t want to watch you die, or throw away your career, or –” his jaw cracked; he winced – “or see you reduced to stealing from me.”

“I‘d have given it back,” Curt said, indifferent.

“Once you paid off your dealer?”

Curt lit a cigarette, and smoked it in silence, with his eyes fixed on the floor.

“You need help,” Arthur murmured. He leaned in just close enough to collect his wallet and the bill Curt had taken out of it.

“ _You_ shouldn't be so damn middle class,” Curt sneered at him. He made no move to stop Arthur, who sighed.

“You know what?” he said, forcing the words out despite the tightness in his throat. “I’m  _done_ here.”

*

The terrible thing was that Arthur didn’t  _want_ to be done with Curt. At least, he didn’t think so. He was still stunned, still wishing that things hadn’t gone to hell between them. Curt had been clean when they met, or so he claimed. He must have been clean: he functioned well enough for them to be so happy, for such a long time. How could he throw all that away? Arthur didn’t know, and didn’t know why or how things went sideways, though he thought he could pinpoint  _when_ Curt first started using behind his back. Then again, they weren’t living together. Maybe that was a warning sign that Arthur should have heeded. Curt could have been shooting heroin and hiding it better, at first, or sleeping around on the side ever since he started dating Arthur more than two years before. Maybe Arthur should have pressed harder about moving in together and left if Curt didn’t agree. Instead, Arthur had told himself that they both benefited from having some privacy. Curt was temperamental and unpredictable at the best of times, and Arthur had thought he was better off with his own flat to go back to when Curt got too difficult. Had he done everything wrong?

Either way, Curt was no longer the person Arthur had started seeing. If Curt had been actively using heroin when Arthur met him in that bar in 1984, Arthur would have felt sad for him, but moved on with his life. He would never have considered dating Curt under those conditions. Now, though? Now, he was trapped. He didn’t know if he and Curt were still together in any sense – if he should hope that Curt might call and apologize, or reach out to Curt himself. He wondered if Curt might be any better on the phone.

He didn’t get far when he tried calling. He reached out to Curt once, after struggling with the idea the whole time he was jogging, and coming home early because the heat and the stink of New York in August had combined with his anxiety to make exercise unbearable. It might be utterly pointless, too. He'd gotten tested for AIDS earlier that week; if he was going to hear bad news and die anyway, why was he bothering? He’d be better off reaching out to Curt, or trying to, at least. He  _had_ to.

Back in his flat, Arthur poured himself a glass of cold water from the tap, then dialed Curt’s number before he could change his mind. The phone rang for so long that, for a moment, Arthur feared the worst. He felt precious little relief when Curt answered him.

“Hello?”

Curt sounded placid and dreamy – too placid and too dreamy. Arthur gritted his teeth, certain that Curt must be high. They wouldn’t get anywhere now. Arthur wondered if he should hang up before speaking.

“It’s me,” he said, risking it. “Please don’t hang up.”

He heard Curt sigh in response.

“What is it?” Curt asked. He sounded more bored than anything.

Arthur hesitated. Then he launched into some of what he’d rehearsed, about how worried he was for Curt, before his courage deserted him. It was no good. He heard the click of the phone disconnecting when he was barely a minute in, despite his begging Curt  _not_ to hang up. Arthur slammed the receiver down and kicked at the wall, defeated.

*

A week later, when the phone rang, Arthur scrambled to get it with a sense of dread that he didn’t think he would ever forget.

“Hello?” His voice shook. No one really called Arthur, unless it was bad news. Anyway, Curt had become pretty much Arthur’s whole social life...

Predictably, Curt’s voice answered him on the other end of the line.

“Please don’t hang up,” Curt said, the ironic echo not lost between his rasping breaths and Arthur’s sinking stomach. “Arthur, I’m - I can’t -”

“What is it?” Arthur asked. Stupid: Curt had overdosed, or something similar. That was obvious from his breathing and his desperation. Of course he'd call Arthur when he needed help. Arthur thought of Curt's sneaking around to shoot heroin and stealing from Arthur and almost certainly cheating on him, too. For a moment he was tempted to spit at Curt, to ask him why he wasn’t calling the hustler from that alley near Lincoln Center or the bloke from the toilet of the last bar he and Arthur had been to together.  _If you die,_  he thought, _I hope you die thinking about me and how much you’ve hurt me..._

But Arthur wasn’t on anything, and he didn’t like to think of himself as being that cruel. He swallowed hard.

“What did you take?” he asked. He knew heroin could cause heart problems, but he had never heard Curt so agitated when he had just scored. He supposed Curt’s latest fix could have been laced with some other, more literal poison, or Curt might have mixed it with another drug – cocaine, maybe.  _The new fashion,_ Arthur thought, bitterly.  _I told you a million times…_

“I’m not sure,” Curt admitted. “Arthur, I can’t breathe right…”

“I’m going to call you an ambulance,” Arthur said, his voice as steady as he could make it. “I have to hang up, but I’ll take a cab over, all right? I’m on my way.”

Curt didn’t answer. Arthur’s palms were damp with sweat when he disconnected and dialed first 911 and then a cab for himself. He arrived at Curt’s flat in time to see the paramedics taking him away on a stretcher. Curt was still alive, thank God, but Arthur wasn’t exactly welcome to go to the hospital with him. He didn’t push too hard: he was too angry at Curt. Besides, the help Curt needed now was so far beyond Arthur that it was laughable. Curt would be better off in the hospital, where they could reverse whatever the hell he’d done to himself and manage the withdrawal symptoms. What good would Arthur be?

Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was betraying Curt – not that Curt hadn’t betrayed  _him_ a dozen times over in recent weeks.  _I’m on my way…_ It had been true, in a sense. He wondered if he should have made it truer, should have insisted on going with Curt and holding his hand in the ambulance, or whatever. But it was too late now. He’d visit later, and see if Curt still wanted him around. It wasn’t obvious that he would.

Arthur let himself into Curt’s apartment instead, wondering if Curt had been alone or if he’d shot up with a dealer or junkie friend who’d abandoned him when things went wrong. The chaos of the apartment told him nothing. There was only one syringe on the bathroom floor, but Arthur couldn’t draw any conclusions from that. Curt might have been sharing with someone else, and Arthur wasn’t going to touch the abandoned needle: the sight of it made his skin crawl.

The bag of heroin by the sink was a different story. Arthur bit his lip, wondering if he was tampering with evidence on the off chance that the police might get involved. Then he picked the bag up and spilled its contents down the toilet. Curt would be furious, of course.  _Not that I give a shit,_  Arthur thought, his legs shaking so much he had to lean against the counter.  _I may even have_ paid _for this._

He left Curt’s apartment soon after that. There was nothing else he could do, or wanted to try.

*

Arthur thought – hoped, really – that Curt might listen to reason after getting out of the hospital. He was wrong.

“At this rate, you won’t live to see forty,” Arthur fumed, pacing Curt’s apartment, “and _I_ get dragged down with you.”

“You know where the door is,” Curt said. His coldness was surprising; Arthur had expected him to rage and shout and smash things, though he might still be too tired. But the coldness was threatening, too, in a way. Arthur hesitated. He wished he could check himself and calm down, because the thought of losing Curt still filled him with dread, for some unfathomable reason.

Calm, however, was beyond him.

“Yeah? I’d like to know where you’d be without me – if the guy you fucked in the bathroom on _our_ last date would have called 911 for you –”

“I didn’t fuck him,” Curt snapped. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m not sure _why_ , but I wouldn’t.”

Arthur tried to ignore the barb, wondering if he could trust Curt about anything at all anymore.

“So what were you doing? Abandoning me to shoot up with him?”

A muscle in Curt’s jaw twitched; Arthur could see it from across the room, and could see Curt trying to hide it.

“There you go,” Curt said, in the same careless tone he’d used before.

“Sharing needles?” Arthur asked. “That’s just as bad. Why are you still trying to justify it?”

“Why are you such a fucking nag?” Curt asked him, his voice rising. “It’s like the thing with the money; I’d have paid you back. I couldn’t exactly hand my dealer a credit card…”

Arthur shook his head.

“You need help,” he said. “And you need –” He swallowed hard, to keep his voice from breaking – “You need to get tested for HIV, unless they did it in the hospital. Do you remember?”

“I don’t,” Curt muttered. “I’m not a fan of hospitals –”

“I _know_ ,” Arthur said. “I know the fucking shock treatment story; every fan of yours does, and anyone who’s halfway decent is sorry you had to go through that. But maybe you should stop feeling sorry for yourself over things that happened twenty-five years ago, and stop risking your life and mine now?”

No answer. Arthur put a hand to his mouth. His heart was racing, almost too fast for him to continue, though the silence between them was unbearable.

“Maybe _you’re_ off in your own world,” Arthur went on, forcing the words out. “But I’m not. I know how it is. I’ve known people who died and –” He stopped again. Curt stared at his cigarette without saying a word, his eyes downcast. Arthur wanted to shake him or something, _anything,_ to make him listen.

“I’ve had ex-boyfriends call me up to say goodbye to me. Do you know what that’s like? To know someone’s probably going to be gone in a year or two? In two years, I’ll barely be thirty-one years old. You think I planned to die at that age? Or watch that happen to you?” He paused for breath. “Not that you even seem to want me around…”

“You’re on thin ice,” Curt said, between drags of his cigarette. “I know how the fucking world works without you lecturing me.”

Arthur stopped pacing a few feet away from Curt. He was too tired to keep moving.

“Then you get tested,” he said, bitterly, “if anyone can find a vein in you to take blood from –”

That comment got a reaction, at least. Curt roused himself, glared at Arthur, and managed enough energy to shout at him.

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, all right?”

“I haven’t been dealing with you the last few months?” Arthur shot back. “I haven’t been – vicariously addicted to heroin?”

“No. You don’t know a damn thing about it, except that you shot smack once with your friend Malcolm, and got so sick you thought you’d be sent home to Mommy and Daddy in a coffin, and they’d be ashamed of you for OD’ing on top of being a fag…”

“At least _I_ can learn a lesson,” Arthur said, disgusted. “I wish I’d never told you anything about my life.”

“Same,” Curt said, more quietly. He was still too weak to rage for very long.

Arthur’s face went hot with renewed anger. “Yeah? Because once again, I’d like to know where you’d be right now if not for me…”

“I always managed.”

_Managed how?_ Arthur thought, but controlled himself before saying it.

“Did they refer you to some sort of rehab?” he asked instead.

Curt shrugged, adopting once again that awful indifference that was like a slap in Arthur’s face. “I think so.”

“You _think_ so,” Arthur spat. “How the fuck are you still playing games with your life, and mine?”

“It’s nothing to do with you,” Curt countered.

“Yeah? The same way you getting tested for AIDS is ‘nothing to do with me’?”

Curt’s brow furrowed as he lit another cigarette.

“Did you – Did you get –”

Arthur took a shaky breath, looked around the room, then collapsed in a chair across from Curt.

“Give me one,” he said, indicating the cigarettes.

Curt shook a cigarette out of the pack and handed it to Arthur, who held it over Curt’s lighter to light it.

“Did _you_ get tested?” Curt asked. Arthur couldn’t mistake the concern in his voice. It only made him angrier, given how Curt had treated him.

“Almost two weeks ago,” Arthur snapped. “I’ll hear any day – not that I expect you to care -”

“Of _course_ I do –”

Arthur took a hurried drag on his cigarette. “How the hell can you say that? Because if you ever want to see me again –”

“I _didn’t_ say that,” Curt said. Any concern or tenderness had disappeared from his voice and his features.

A small jolt of panic made Arthur’s pulse quicken. “What?”

“I’m not seeing you anymore,” Curt replied. “You can fuck right off.”

Arthur couldn’t speak for a moment. His grip slackened, and he nearly dropped his cigarette from his cold fingers.

“Why?” he managed.

“Because I’m fucking sick of you, and you’re talking like you want a future for us, which isn’t possible.”

“You’re sick of _me_ ,” Arthur murmured. He still wasn’t sure he’d understood Curt’s words, or didn’t _want_ to understand. Somehow, he’d assumed they would get through this together, or, at least, that they would be stuck together suffering for a while longer. “I only wanted to help you, you idiot – to support you – I should have left you months ago –”

“Fine,” Curt said. “Then fuck off. I mean –” His tone softened, almost imperceptibly – “I hope you’re okay and everything, but you should just _go._ ”

“Then why have you been listening to me all this time?” Arthur demanded, his anger returning and giving him some strength.

Curt inhaled his smoke before answering.

“It gave me something to do, since I can’t get high.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur said, standing up and almost knocking over his chair. “You get tested, and you tell me what the result is, and then I don’t care if you go to rehab or to hell or what. We’re done.”

He walked to the front door, slamming it behind him as he left. His righteous anger deserted him before he reached the lift, once it was too late – not that he could or should have done anything else. He bowed his head and inhaled a few times, conscious of the lump in his throat and the weakness in his knees. He knew that he and Curt should have been over a long time ago, but knowing that was no consolation.


	2. Present

Arthur presses his fingers to his temple. He can’t get a grip on these headaches, or his sleeplessness, or anything: he’s been a wreck ever since he and Curt split, when Arthur still thought that he might get through to Curt, and might be able to _help_. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Apparently he can’t even help himself.

He has wasted all the sick days his job allowed him so he could stay in bed feeling sorry for himself and angry at Curt, whom he misses desperately. Then, once Arthur had wasted all his sick days, he’d started taking unpaid time off work. Now, of course, he’s broke, and can’t take anymore time off for a long while, no matter how fucked up he is thanks to his insomnia and his self-pity.

He did get a prescription for Valium, one pill to take as needed for occasional sleeplessness. One pill, however, soon ceased to be enough. He’d started taking one and a half, then two, then two and a half and contemplating three before he realized that they weren’t helping and that three sleeping pills a night couldn’t be healthy. After that, he began to wonder if he should throw the bottle away before they became a habit. Maybe he should suffer the insomnia without the pills, instead of suffering it _with_ them. Maybe he has no right to judge Curt, either, and the only advantage Arthur has over Curt is that Arthur got very sick from heroin the one time he tried it, as Curt pointed out so colourfully the last time they were together.

He has spoken to Curt once since that day. Curt called him one night to say that he’d tested negative for HIV, as Arthur had a few weeks earlier. He told Arthur that he was in rehab, too, but wouldn’t give any details when Arthur tried to ask him.

“You sound – better,” Arthur had said. “Your voice.” He was trying to be encouraging and sympathetic without nagging Curt, which was a fine line to walk. Nagging had never, ever worked, though. Arthur realized that now, and should have realized it earlier. Missing Curt as much as he did had made him reconsider some of his anger and his indignation, and hearing Curt’s voice on the phone was pushing him dangerously close to wanting Curt back.

“Yeah,” Curt said. His voice – the voice that had meant so much to Arthur for so long – was stronger, but low and inscrutable.

“I was –” Curt began, then stopped short. Arthur hesitated. He was too afraid to press Curt on anything.

“What is it?” Arthur asked, once the silence became too much to bear. _You didn’t hang up, did you?_

He heard Curt sigh – his only answer.

“Curt, I want to help you,” Arthur added, because he was an idiot who hadn’t learned his lesson yet.

“I’m fine,” Curt said. Arthur supposed it was better than no response at all.

“Please, at least tell me how you’re doing,” Arthur said. “And _what_ you’re doing.”

“I already did,” Curt replied. “Other than that – you don’t want to be involved. Trust me.” Whatever strength or normalcy Curt had managed faded; now, he sounded as tired and as low as Arthur felt.

“Don’t shut me out,” Arthur begged, suppressing that familiar panic. “I’d help you – as a friend, if nothing else, if you want –”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Curt repeated.

And that was it. Arthur remembers thinking, _Whatever you do, don’t hang up_ , once it was already too late.

“Please, Curt –”

There was a click at the other end of the line. Arthur threw the phone down in despair. _You bastard_ , he thought, suddenly hating Curt more than he’d ever hated anyone – even more than he hated his father. _You selfish, stupid bastard; I was begging you to_ talk _to me…_

He spent the next few days alternating between righteous anger and depression so bleak he could barely function. He forced himself to relive every wrong Curt ever did him, every time Curt had lied or abandoned him, thrown a fit at him for no reason, or rifled through his wallet for drug money. It didn’t help much: the litany of awful memories depressed him more. Then again, he _did_ achieve a few moments of clarity, when he felt certain that Curt was only ever using him. Why else would he have rekindled Arthur’s teenage fantasies, or pretended to recognize him from a one-night stand in 1974? Arthur had never believed Curt when he claimed to recognize him ‘right away’. At first he gave Curt the benefit of the doubt. He figured that Curt recognized him at some point, and said he recognized Arthur ‘right away’ as a bit of harmless flattery. Now, of course, Arthur’s not sure it was harmless. That sweet, small bit of validation may have been yet another lie.

Either way, the hurt and the anger haven’t kept Arthur from missing Curt. He calls him a few times, desperate to hear his voice and, also, to shout at him until he realizes what he’s doing to Arthur, to _make_ him stop and see sense. _Are you alive? Why don’t you answer your phone, you bastard? You’re the most selfish person I ever met. In fact, you’re hardly a person at all, just a sort of concept that doesn’t work in real life, or in this decade – and I_ still _wish you’d talk to me..._

But Curt never answers. Arthur’s insults and his pleas for acknowledgement have no purpose except to fester in his brain, keeping him awake at night. Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, he finds himself sitting by his bedroom window holding the pin Curt gave him and wishing he had the balls to smash it. It’s old, if he can trust Curt on a trivial point like that one, and Arthur’s flat is on the sixth floor. He could probably shatter the pin into a hundred pieces, a thousand. He never tries, though: he lacks the courage of his convictions, or maybe he can’t bear to lose the one thing Curt gave him to hold onto besides anger and pain.

Predictably, he gives up jogging. At first he’s too tired to go out. Then it starts to seem pointless, and then, despite trying to deny it, he realizes that it reminds him of Curt, who would both tease and admire Arthur for going.

“You realize this is New York, right?” Curt would ask him. “Do you know how dangerous this city is? You’re not in some cute English town…”

Arthur would laugh him off.

“I grew up in the second largest city in the UK – _you_ realize that, don’t you? Anyway, you could come with me.”

Curt tried a few times, though his smoking made it difficult for him to keep up. For a while, Arthur had gotten after him to cut back on cigarettes. It almost worked, in those hazy, optimistic days when Curt was so in control, wasn’t even drinking to get drunk, and did nothing harder than the occasional joint he’d share with Arthur.

Arthur has no idea why it all went to hell. He doesn’t think there’ll be enough waking hours in the rest of his life for him to condemn Curt like he deserves, or berate himself for missing Curt regardless, or parse the problem of having no right answer anymore. He misses Curt so much that it’s like an ache in every part of him, from each nerve of his skin down to the marrow of his bones. But if Curt were to call him now swearing that he was sober and begging Arthur to take him back, it would only mean more pain. At best, they might have a few good months or years before the addiction Curt has spent his life battling was bound to reassert itself. Arthur should have known. He reminds himself – bitterly – that he spent much of his teen years, and far too much of his adult life, reading all the interviews and all the tabloids, tracking down every scrap of information he could find about the great _Curt Wild_. He knew Curt had had heroin in his life long before he had Arthur. He would probably have it long after Arthur was gone, defeated. It didn’t matter how much Arthur loved him or wanted his love in return.

Arthur’s useless at work these days. He’s too distracted to write or interview anyone well, and he’s snappish and irritable with his colleagues and the unfortunate waiters or cashiers when he bothers to get lunch. He hates being around people; if he could afford it, he’d rather stay in his apartment or, better yet, his bed. His colleagues know something’s wrong with him, too. He looks _off_ ; he’s lost weight without meaning to, and has taken more sick time than anyone at the _Herald_ can remember him taking. He wonders if they think he’s in the early stages of dying of AIDS, which makes him wish he’d never come out at all. That had been an impulse decision when he started dating Curt steadily, and the kind of move from which no good could come, in the long run. Arthur can see that now.

A month passes. He muddles on without hearing from Curt and without that constant ache inside him easing. For the first time in his life, he’s low enough to consider therapy. Unfortunately, the therapy only started to seem like a good idea _after_ the unpaid time off work, which was the worst possible order, and has left Arthur too broke to try anything. It’s a shame. By the time he’s back on his feet financially, he’ll be too embarrassed to look into therapy. Besides, assuming he could find a therapist who respected his sexuality, seeing one would mean explaining how he knew Curt and why, as an adult, he was still throwing himself at Curt’s head. It’s not an attractive prospect.

Then one month stretches into six weeks. Arthur’s more or less paid off his bills. He had to put himself on a strict regimen of no cabs (his biggest extravagance), no bars or clubs (not a hardship, because he doesn’t want to meet or see anyone), and no restaurants or takeout (impossible: he’d starve to death). He’s no happier, and he wonders if he should try saving up for therapy after all. Then again, what’s the point? He’s not sure happiness is possible for him anymore. His lifelong obsession with Curt Wild and the world he lives in may have taken that option away from him.

*

A little over eight weeks, now. Two months. Arthur’s wondering if he should reach out to Curt again, and trying to convince himself that it’s a lost cause, when Curt calls him out of the blue at his work. He’s the last person Arthur expects. When the phone rings, Arthur’s sure it’s the curator of the Metropolitan exhibit he’s writing a piece on trying to wheedle out of her meeting with him once again.

“Please don’t hang up,” Curt’s voice says, as soon as Arthur picks up the phone. “I need to talk to you.”

Arthur’s pretty sure that his blood has turned to ice in his veins.

“Why?” he asks, certain that he already knows why, and dreading it.

“There’s nothing wrong,” Curt says. Arthur doesn’t know if it’s his imagination, or if Curt sounds strained, as if he’s lying – as if he’s just received a death sentence and has to deliver one to Arthur, too.

“Then why are you calling me?” Arthur snaps.

“I want to see you,” Curt says.

“Really,” Arthur replies, coldly, “after all this time?”

There’s a long pause, which makes Arthur’s insides tighten, because it has to be bad news, doesn’t it? He wonders if he should be so harsh with Curt – if it’s _allowed_ – if there’s a chance that he’s sick.

“I can’t get into it now,” Curt says. “Can I come by your place tonight? Please.”

He sounds quite calm – too calm to be sick or dying, maybe. Arthur hopes so, more than he has ever hoped for anything. Then again, if Curt’s okay, he must be calling because he wants Arthur back, which is a problem in its own right. Arthur might not have the sense to say no.

“I could go to your place,” Arthur offers. _So I can leave whenever I want._

“It’s better if I come to you,” Curt says.

“Why? And why can’t you tell me now?”

“I can’t get into it,” Curt says again. “And I’ve moved. It would be much easier if I stop by your apartment.”

“Fine,” Arthur says. “Though I wish you’d tell me what the hell’s going on.”

“It’s nothing bad,” Curt insists. Arthur can’t bring himself to believe him.

“What time can I come over?”

“I get home around seven,” Arthur says, irritated. He’s racking his brain for some way to pin Curt down and force him to be more forthcoming, but Curt doesn’t give him a chance to say anything more.

“Okay, I’ll see you around seven,” Curt says. Then – as usual – he ends the call. Arthur slams the phone down and kicks at the leg of his desk, uselessly.

“You bastard,” he mutters, before wondering if he should relent and try to forgive Curt. _But he kept saying nothing was wrong…_ Then again, Curt was erratic and irresponsible. Worse, he’d already shown that he had no problem lying to Arthur, including about things that put Arthur’s well-being at risk. Arthur couldn't forgive that. When Arthur had gotten his test results back, his first conscious thought, after that initial and inarticulate wave of relief, was that Curt was probably or _hopefully_ all right, too, at least as of the last time they had slept together. Arthur was relieved for Curt’s sake as well as his own, but he doesn’t know if Curt ever cared enough about him to think the same way.

Now, he's terrified he may have gotten a false negative. He’d gotten tested anonymously; the clinic could have mixed up the sample of blood he gave with someone else’s. He could have been operating under a false sense of security for weeks…

Arthur realizes that his hands are shaking. He tells himself that Curt said twice during their brief call that nothing was wrong, but he can't stop his rising anxiety. Arthur thinks of how _off_ he’s been, and the way people have been looking at him, like there must be something seriously wrong with him. He’s lost weight, too; there's a sharpness to his face that's not normal, and his clothes are a little too loose on him. He figured he was too damn sad to do anything right, including sleeping or eating; it wouldn’t have been the first time his health suffered when he was depressed or under strain. He’d assumed that that same old sadness explained away all his symptoms, but today, he’s not so sure.

 _Stop it_ , he tells himself, once an hour has passed since Curt’s call, and Arthur has written off getting any work done. _Curt said he was okay. He probably wants to badger me into seeing him again._ Curt _might_ have called him at the office in an attempt to force Arthur to listen. He would know that Arthur was too reserved to swear at him or make a fuss when his colleagues might hear. Then again, Arthur’s not convinced Curt would have the forethought to do something like that. Planning, or really impulse control of any kind, wasn’t Curt’s strong suit. As a result, Arthur’s never sure whether Curt’s using him deliberately or not.

It doesn’t matter much. Arthur knows he’s been used either way. He has a somewhat calmer hour around one o’clock, after convincing himself that Curt probably called to try to get back together – and that Arthur was stupid enough to encourage him, as Curt might have expected. Arthur wonders if, right from the beginning, Curt had seen in him someone who’d be pliant and easy, and who wouldn’t try too hard to stand up to him. It helped, or rather didn’t help, that Arthur’s history with Curt made him easy to flatter. Arthur had wondered what Curt saw in him many times since they first hooked up after Arthur’s Brian Slade story. His speculations have taken a darker turn in recent months. Curt could have dated other musical geniuses, or models, or artists – people who were as cool and as talented as he was himself. He didn’t need some second-rate journalist whom no one had ever heard of and who didn’t have a penny to his name. Sometimes Arthur thinks Curt _wasn’t_ lying when he said he recognized Arthur right away. Maybe he had remembered that rooftop, and had still seen in Arthur the desperate, idiotic groupie, still smelled it on him, and knew Arthur wouldn’t say no to anything until it was much too late.

Arthur doesn’t know if thinking like that is fair or not. He can no longer tell anger, bitterness, or paranoia from what might be a legitimate insight. He reminds himself that Curt’s not the type to think things through, even when doing so would be in his best interests (and averse to Arthur’s), which gets him worrying again that something must be wrong. He and Curt might both die in this mess and Arthur doesn’t know who or what to blame. He wishes, for the thousandth time, that he and Curt had never met at all.

By the time Arthur finishes work, his chest is so tight he can hardly breathe. At least he avoided having to talk to anyone since Curt called, a small bit of luck which holds as he leaves the _Herald_ ’s head office and crosses the street toward the subway station. The convenience store on the corner catches his eye. He shouldn’t be in any hurry to hear whatever Curt has to say to him, should he? He can spare a minute or two.

He walks out of his way to the store, finds the shelf of cigarettes and wipes damp hands on his trousers before picking up a pack. They’re the same brand Curt smokes. Arthur would sometimes share a cigarette with him after sex. He’d bought a few packs of his own, too, one before a friend’s funeral when Curt was so busy getting high and so completely unavailable to Arthur they may as well have broken up before then, and a couple after they did break up, when Arthur was lonely and sentimental enough to crave anything that reminded him of Curt.

He can’t help wincing when he pays the cashier: the cigarettes are a dreadful waste of money. But it might not matter for much longer, and he doesn’t see a way to get through tonight without them.

*

Surreal is the first word that crosses Arthur’s mind when he sees Curt waiting for him outside his apartment, smoking a cigarette and pacing by the door. The faintest of smiles tugs at Curt’s mouth. He looks healthy, at least; he’s put back the weight he lost toward the end of their relationship, and there’s some colour in his cheeks. Then again, that might mean nothing.

“Hey,” Curt says, intruding on Arthur’s thoughts. Arthur stares at him blankly, which prompts Curt to bite his lip and add, “I – appreciate that you let me come…”

“What choice did I have?” Arthur asks, unlocking the door and opening it. He turns on Curt as soon as they’re both inside the flat. “Are you still negative?”

Curt’s a little taken aback by his shortness.

“Yeah, I’m fine…”

“Good,” Arthur says. “At least I don’t have to jump in front of a subway train yet.”

He sees Curt flinch at his words. _Good_.

“Oh, Arthur –”

“You scared me half to death by calling today,” Arthur adds, ignoring Curt, whose eyes narrow.

“I told you nothing was wrong,” he says. There’s an edge in his voice. Arthur shrugs at him.

“I didn’t believe you. Are you still clean?”

“Yeah. I haven’t so much as looked at a beer in months, let alone anything harder.”

Arthur dumps his bag on the floor, and sits down on his battered sofa.

“Then why the fuck did you call me at work like that?” he asks Curt.

Curt pulls out a folding chair from the kitchen table, arranges it to face Arthur, and sits down before answering.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought that, after the way we split –” he pauses – “I mean, the way I treated you, that you might have changed your number at home.”

“Didn’t think of that,” Arthur says, coldly, “but I should have.”

He wouldn’t have done it, though. Arthur has always been so desperate for any crumb of affection that he has never left anyone properly, no matter how bad it got. Every breakup he’s ever had was a painful, humiliating, protracted mess. What happened – _is_ happening – with Curt might be worse in magnitude, but not in kind. He rubs at his temple, which is pounding. _Fucking headaches._

“Are you okay?” Curt asks.

Arthur bites his lip. “I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.” _Or for the last few months, thanks to you, you son of a bitch._

Their eyes meet. Curt raises an eyebrow and frowns around his cigarette, but says nothing. Arthur sighs.

“So what the hell are you doing here?”

He wants to hear the answer in Curt’s words, though he knows he shouldn’t. Simply listening to Curt will broadcast how weak Arthur is, and how nothing is ever final with Arthur, no matter how much he’s been used or hurt. Even if Arthur _wanted_ to take Curt back, the mere fact of doing so would ruin any hope for them. It would mean that Arthur could never have any power or credibility with Curt again, not that he’d had much to begin with.

“I want to apologize to you,” Curt says, looking down. “And I want to see if there’s any way I can make things up to you – any way we could try again.”

Arthur hears himself laugh.

“Do you think I’m still that seventeen-year-old kid pining for a piece of Curt Wild?” he asks. “Because if you live to be one hundred years old, which you won’t, you still won’t have enough time to _make things up_ to me.”

Now it’s Curt’s turn to sigh. “I thought you’d say something like that. I know what I did was a violation of your boundaries and your safety and everything, and I had to tell you I’m sorry I’ve been such a piece of shit.”

Arthur feels his anger abating somewhat. _Idiot_ , he thinks, turning his face away, and lighting a cigarette of his own. He’d be mad to consider trying again with Curt, and yet, he’s been so miserable alone. It’s the same problem he’s been mulling over for months, the problem of having no right choice and no way out. If he takes Curt back, they’ll degenerate into another drug-fuelled mess and split up again, which will cost Arthur at least as much as it has this time – which, in turn, is why he almost wants to take Curt back and start the cycle over. It’s as if he can’t be happy with Curt, _or_ without him. He wishes he never heard of Curt Wild, never listened to any of his music or saw a picture of him in his life. If there were some sort of drug or electric shock treatment that could remove all memories of Curt from Arthur's brain, he’d sign up in a heartbeat.

“I’m not going to make this easy on you,” Arthur says. “I can’t.”

“I don’t give a shit about ‘easy’, but doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance?”

“Not necessarily,” Arthur replies. “Anyway, I gave you plenty of chances.”

Arthur ventures a glance at Curt. Curt’s face darkens, and Arthur imagines the shouting match that’s bound to ensue. He wonders how he’ll get Curt out of his apartment.

But to his surprise, Curt sits there focused on his cigarette without moving or speaking. The sight of him makes Arthur’s cheeks warm.

“Go on,” he says, “where’s the Curt Wild temper tantrum? You’re clean; you should be strong enough, so why aren’t you –”

“Because you’re very attractive when you’re angry,” Curt says. “You should do it more often.”

Arthur stares at him open-mouthed.

“I swear to God, if you make a joke of this, I’ll –”

That faint smile pulls at Curt’s lips again, despite his obvious effort to hide it.

“I mean it – but you’re also kind of scary when you’re angry, ‘cause you make good points and don’t lose it and scream about stupid shit like me. Like I used to, anyway.”

Curt reaches for Arthur’s hand, and Arthur draws back, pointedly. Curt bites his lower lip.

“I thought a lot about how much I hurt you, and myself, although I understand if you don’t give a shit about _me_ anymore,” Curt adds. “But I don’t want to keep living that way. Maybe I needed to hit rock bottom in order to change, you know?”

“But how many rock bottoms have you hit in your life?” Arthur demands, doubtful that Curt _can_ change. “And how many boyfriends or girlfriends of yours have been in my shoes and heard the same story?”

“Less than you’d think,” Curt answers. He sounds almost as tired as Arthur feels, which is how Arthur knows he must be wounding Curt. The knowledge gives him little satisfaction. He reminds himself that addiction is a sort of sickness, too, and that Curt has also suffered, which makes Arthur wonder if he should be a little softer or kinder with Curt. He doesn’t think he can manage it.

“Most of the people I’ve dated were as fucked up as me…”

 _And I’m squarely in that category_ , Arthur thinks. _Almost fucked up enough to want you back._ But he tries not to let on, though his fingers are clenched around his cigarette.

“I’m not a tool for you to use in your rehab,” he says. “I need to protect myself.”

Curt hisses in annoyance. “I’m not asking you to – to let me use you or whatever. That’s why I broke up with you in the first place.”

“What, to protect me?” Arthur asks. “That sounds like some third-rate TV drama; you can’t expect me to believe that. What you did was ignore me for months.” He watches Curt’s reaction. “I was begging you to keep in touch, and let me help you – begging like a fucking dog that was being kicked, and you didn’t care.”

“I didn’t want to involve you in my shit,” Curt replies, his voice calm, but sad. “It wasn’t a pretty sight, and –”

“You said you were sick of me, that I was middle class and a fucking nag.”

“I didn’t mean it, and I’m not proud of it.”

That pleading tone tears at Arthur’s insides. He stares down at the floor.

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t answer me, or why you waited so long to get in touch.”

There’s a brief silence before Curt says, “I – had hepatitis, and didn’t want to call you up to take care of me when I was sick and puking all over the place.”

“Jesus,” Arthur bursts out, “how the fuck are you still alive, and still HIV negative?”

“I’ve been tested twice,” Curt reassures him. “I had a whole battery of tests. I swear, all I fucking do is go to doctor or therapist appointments.”

“Well, you’re luckier than many people who _weren’t_ courting death like you were,” Arthur points out. “I don’t feel sorry for you, and you shouldn’t feel too sorry for yourself.”

There’s a grim set to Curt’s jaw as he smokes his cigarette.

“I know,” he says at last. “My doctor says I must have nine lives or something.”

“And you clearly want to throw them all away,” Arthur mutters.

Curt winces. “Yeah. So I’ve been told.”

“How the hell did you never get hepatitis before? Or the vaccine for it?”

Curt shrugs.

“I don’t know. I guess I have this charmed, fucked up, miserable life, but –” his lip curls – “I’ll tell you one thing, they _can_ find veins in me for blood tests.”

Arthur takes a few hurried drags, trying to soothe his itching throat, before he can answer.

“I shouldn’t have said that, that day at your place. Honestly, I’m not sure why you want me back.”

“My life was less miserable with you in it,” Curt says, relenting. He sounds so matter-of-fact that it’s hard not to trust him, despite all the evidence Arthur has that he _can’t_ trust Curt.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” Arthur says. “I mean, you seem all right…”

Curt gives a half-laugh. “I’m fine. Apparently, it – the hepatitis – clears up on its own, like a fucking cold.”

 _You’re so lucky,_ Arthur thinks, but doesn’t want to get into it. A strained silence falls. Neither of them knows how to break it, until Arthur remembers something Curt had said that caught him off-guard.

“You’re in therapy?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Curt answers. “Part of my rehab.”

Arthur finishes his cigarette, stubs it out, then lights another, wondering whether he should take the bait.

“All right,” he murmurs, “tell me what you’re doing to stay clean, and I’ll _try_ to believe you.”

Curt touches Arthur’s knee. Arthur glares at him, but doesn’t pull away this time. He’s so desperate for any kindness or comfort that he’ll accept some from the man who caused him all this pain in the first place. _Classic Arthur Stuart,_ he thinks. _This is how it starts._

Curt takes several more drags.

“You know I can’t do the whole in-patient thing,” he says eventually. “I shelled out money for a treatment center upstate, and wish I hadn’t, ‘cause it was like a fucking prison and I left after three days.” His eyes meet Arthur’s. “I wish I’d had you to talk me out of it – not getting clean, obviously, but that sort of place was never for me. Then I tried one of those stupid twelve step programs; an old friend sponsored me, which I appreciate, but the programs themselves are all this…” He trails off, exhaling his smoke. “I tried them in the past and you see the result. I hate their fucking bullshit about a higher power that I can _trust_. There’s no such thing, and if there was, he, she, or it wouldn’t give a shit about me, so I left that –”

“What part of this is supposed to make me trust _you_ again?” Arthur asks.

“Will you let me finish?” Curt snaps. “I’m _trying_ to be honest…”

“Fine,” Arthur says, exhaling.

“I’ve been back on methadone since the last time I saw you,” Curt offers.

Talk about anticlimactic. Arthur’s tempted to roll his eyes.

“That’s it? Has methadone ever worked for you?”

“It’s the best thing for me,” Curt says. “Always was. And this doctor I’m going to – I think she understands that I might need to be on it for longer than I was. She’s also the one who insisted I go to therapy, which isn’t half as embarrassing as it sounds.”

“You’re actually going?” Arthur asks. He _knows_ Curt has mentioned the therapy twice tonight, but he can’t wrap his head around the idea. He’s pleased about it, too, and has to remind himself that it shouldn’t change anything for him. _I’ll still ruin my life if I take him back – though it might be ruined already._

Curt nods. “Yeah.”

“Is it helping?”

Curt answers him with a shrug. “I guess. I’m going twice a week; can you believe it?”

 _Well, I wish I could afford to,_ Arthur thinks. Of course he doesn’t want to say so aloud and show Curt how weak and fucked up he is. Besides, if he’d been able to afford any sort of therapy, his first priority would have been learning to get over Curt for good. They might not be having this conversation now.

Curt must view the quiet as an invitation to go on, because he adds, “I’m trying to do what they tell me to. My therapist says I should get away from the things and places I was around when I was using…”

 _Does that include me?_ Arthur wonders. “Like what?”

 “I’m supposed to move,” Curt says. “She told me not to stay in the same area where I have connections and – never mind. She suggested some place out of the way like fucking White Plains.”

Arthur’s frown deepens. “I’m not a hundred percent sure where that is…”

Curt explains well enough for Arthur to get the gist of it.

“Oh, God, no, you’d hate that,” Arthur says, as if he were involved in Curt’s decisions, or as if they were planning a life together – that future that Curt had said was impossible. “You’d be so bored in a place like that, I think it would backfire – not that I know.” _Not that I care._ As much as he hates to admit it, the thought of Curt moving so far away that they might never see each other again scares Arthur. Objectively, Curt moving to fucking Mars or something would be the best thing to happen to Arthur, yet here he is, worrying about Curt ending up in the suburbs.

Curt exhales again. “I said the same thing. The specific place doesn’t matter, though. I think she – I mean, my therapist – lives there, so it was the first example she thought of.” He gives a small, cautious smile. “I’m currently living at this hotel, and I can’t stand that, either. That’s why I wanted to come here. You’d never have found my place.”

So a little more of their conversation that afternoon makes sense. _It doesn’t matter; nothing he can say matters…_

“I didn’t expect you to actually go, or _listen_ , to a therapist,” Arthur admits.

Curt’s smile broadens. Arthur realizes that Curt must think he’s about to cave.

“I’m moving and everything because she told me to,” Curt explains. He seems proud of his obedience, which is a hell of a change. “House hunting. I wish you were there to help, but I know that’s a lot to ask.”

“It is,” Arthur says quickly.

Curt backs off at once. “I get it. I’ll think of something, although I’m a bit strapped for cash – not that that’s your problem.” He takes another drag of smoke, his smile long gone now. Arthur has the impression that he doesn’t want to go on, that he’s trying to gather up his courage.

“I’m so sorry I went through your wallet that time –”

“ _Those_ times,” Arthur says. Whatever colour there was in Curt’s face drains from it.

“Okay, those times. I’m really ashamed of that, although I’d have given the money back, like I said – not that that justifies anything.”

Arthur shifts against the sofa, letting Curt’s hand fall away from his knee. Curt looks at him, pleadingly.

“It made sense at the time – terrible drug addict logic – but I know that was one of the worst violations of your trust,” Curt adds.

“Did your therapist tell you to use those words?” Arthur asks.

“Yes,” Curt replies. “But I’m jumping the gun on coming to see you. She said I should wait. I insisted on doing it now; I missed you so much.”

 _I missed you, too_ , Arthur thinks, but grits his teeth and says nothing.

“I wish you’d spent more time with me, when I was in the hospital,” Curt continues.  

Arthur takes a drag on his cigarette. He’s not proud of that, either, but Curt has wronged him far more.

“I _tried,_ ” he says. “You were pushing me away, even then, until it got to the point where I could only deal with you when you were sleeping.” He hesitates, worries at a fingernail, then continues. “And I was so – you betrayed me. You stole from me –”

“I already said I’m sorry,” Curt insists.

Arthur shakes his head. “We’re not kids. ‘Sorry’ doesn’t fix anything. You lied to me; you were sleeping with other people when that could have been a death sentence for either of us.”

“I slept with three other people the whole time we were together,” Curt says. “I swear. It wasn’t right, but it wasn’t half as bad as you thought, and one of them was a girl. You know heroin fucks up my sex drive. It becomes the only really important thing…”

The wistful look in his eyes and his eloquence make Arthur flinch. Arthur knows that heroin affected Curt’s sex drive, but didn’t destroy it completely, and he knows that because he was stupid enough to have slept with Curt a few times when he was high. His face flushes at the memory, which is fine. He _wants_ to be angry at Curt, no matter how sweet or how contrite Curt acts. Everyone who was ever toxic or abusive in a relationship must be sweet sometimes: if not, no one would ever get involved with them, and there would be no such _things_ as bad or destructive relationships. Arthur knows that, too.

“Yeah,” he says, coldly, “you said you weren’t fucking that guy on _our_ last date, just shooting up with him, like it was so much better. What about Lincoln Center?”

“That was one of the times,” Curt admits, averting his eyes. Arthur feels his stomach turn. Curt goes on, “I swear, it didn’t happen nearly as much as you thought.”

“Then why did you _make_ me think it was happening? Why were you flaunting the on-the-side sex you weren’t having, or were barely having? When I was in touch with ex-boyfriends who were dying of AIDS, and hysterical that you or I would be next?”

“I’m sorry; I’ve lost people too –”

“Then how the hell could you be that cruel?”

Curt finishes his cigarette and lights and starts to smoke another before replying.

“I guess I wanted to put you off what I was really doing,” he says. “It’s that same shitty addict logic. It makes you really selfish.”

“I noticed,” Arthur says. He inhales his smoke again.

“You know, at any other time, I’d have been fine with an open relationship. I’ve been in them before, though not with anyone like _you._ ” He glares at Curt, who waits for him to finish without speaking. “You’d have benefitted more than me, but I could have lived with that. All I asked was that our sex life not include other people _for now._ Why was that too much for you?”

Curt sighs. “I don’t know, except that I can’t think right when I’m on drugs.”

“I’m not sure I can accept that,” Arthur replies.

“That’s fine,” Curt says, though his voice is thick. “You’re justified in never wanting to talk to me again, but I had to try. I’ve been so fucking bored I practically wanted to blow my brains out –”

“For fuck’s sake,” Arthur hisses, “why are you telling me that?”

“I didn’t mean it –”

“No, see, now I don’t know if you’d want me back as your boyfriend or your suicide watch, which I can’t do,” Arthur says, lighting another cigarette with shaking hands. “You’ve got a therapist; tell that to her. It’s way above _my_ pay grade, even if we did get back together – which we’re not –”

“You talked about jumping in front of a train earlier,” Curt points out.

“That was different.”

“How?”

Arthur tenses, expecting more of an outburst, but Curt remains calm despite Arthur’s silence. Arthur wonders if Curt has been working on some sort of anger management program. He probably has been: he was never this patient or this good at controlling his temper before, not even when they first got together and their biggest rows were over nonsense like spilled coffee and shattered dishes or ashtrays. _Nothing to get excited about; we’re still a disaster waiting to happen._

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Curt asks. “ _I’m_ just exaggerating, so never mind me, but have you been –”

“I’m fine,” Arthur says.

“Well, I figured you’d be better off without me than I was without you, but now I’m not so sure…”

“I’m _fine_ , now stop asking,” Arthur insists. Curt raises an eyebrow at him. He looks as doubtful about Arthur’s wellbeing as Arthur is about Curt’s sobriety. _I shouldn’t have said that about the subway train, then. Fine. Whatever..._

“Do you want me to leave?” Curt asks. “As long as _I_ don’t have to call 911 for _you_ …”

“I said to drop it,” Arthur snaps. He’s annoyed with Curt for prying, and annoyed with himself for finding Curt’s contrition and his concern tempting. Then again, wanting, deep inside, to take Curt back is as understandable as any of the other stupid things he has done for Curt. He’s had this obsession for years, and, for a while, at least, had a real relationship dangled in front of him, like a prize after all his pathetic hoping. But he knows that Curt is a consummate performer and _transformer_. He can reinvent himself musically or work in different styles like a complete natural, something he’s been showing off on his more recent albums – a couple of stripped down blues-y tracks on one, a brutal parody of Gospel music to take the piss out of religion in America on another, and so on. He also wrote and performed this hilarious nursery rhyme-type thing thanking his original lineup when they reunited with him for a tour a few years ago, which seemed like it would be absurd, but which Curt pulled off brilliantly. Arthur wonders if Curt can do the same in his personal life. This new, apologetic Curt who claims to have learned from his mistakes might be yet another performance. Curt would deny it, of course; he likes to think of himself as always telling it like it is, but that, too, could be art or artifice. He might be more like Brian Slade than either he or Arthur would care to admit.

“I’m too tired to decide if you should leave or not,” Arthur says.

“I’ll go,” Curt offers. “But I wish you’d see me again. I wish you’d come with me somewhere so we could work things out – like Maine or Vermont or something…”

Arthur wishes he could believe in the fantasy Curt is offering him.

“Did that work for you and Brian?” he asks. “In 1974 or whenever?”

He sees Curt’s knuckles turn white around the cigarette.

“Does it matter? I want to put things right between us.” The strain in Curt’s voice is more obvious than before, but he doesn’t lose control. Arthur can’t help admiring him. _I’m not taking him back,_ he thinks. _I’d be an idiot to do so, now that I know what he’s like when things are bad._

“I want to go somewhere where no one knows me,” Curt adds, “where I could just be good to you.”

“Anyone can be good to anyone in the country,” Arthur says, vaguely remembering some quote by Oscar Wilde. “There’s no – temptation there.”

Curt exhales. “We could work things out, and I wouldn’t have to sit here bothering you all night. I’ve cancelled all appearances for the foreseeable future; I’m doing nothing except writing music and going to appointments, and I’m so goddamn bored it’s killing me. We’d both benefit from a trip.”

“There’s no _we_ anymore,” Arthur says, “and this road trip idea sounds like running from your problems. Anyway, are you allowed to drive on methadone? Although I suppose if you kill us both in a car wreck, it would be fast, at least…”

“Arthur, would you stop? If something’s wrong, fucking tell me so I can help, or stop scaring me…”

“You’ve done the same to me,” Arthur counters. “And I’m _fine,_ but I don’t want to waste time and money that I don’t have on something that won’t help.”

“A weekend, then. Pick wherever you want to go, and I’ll pay for everything.”

Curt always was generous to a fault. The new, paranoid Arthur wonders if that was only ever a ploy to control him by making him financially dependent on Curt, except that that isn’t Curt’s style: once again, Curt can’t plan anything to save his life. His whole problem is impulse control, which includes blowing through money for any and every reason from excessive generosity to hard drug use. _Not that I’ve done much better financially._

“You don’t have money for it, either,” Arthur says. He’s not _trying_ to be cruel. “Right now, moving or whatever your doctor and your therapist say should be more important to you than me.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Curt says.

That’s when the most absurd idea occurs to Arthur. It’s the sort of thing he and Curt would have laughed about months ago when Curt was clean and things were so good and so hopeful. For a second Arthur’s his old self again, the Arthur who enjoys, or _enjoyed_ , being with Curt Wild. He can’t suppress his smile, which is his first big mistake.

“You’ll hate this,” he says, aloud – the second mistake. “Or maybe you won’t. You’d have to be sort of ironic about it, but you should do an ad for something. It would make you quick cash.”

Curt’s mouth curls.

“License a song to Coca-Cola or whatever?”

“I was thinking you could appear in one yourself,” Arthur suggests. “You could try to do it for something cool, at least, like a motorcycle company.”

“Brilliant, even if it _is_ selling out to high heaven,” Curt says. There’s a light in his eyes that Arthur hasn’t seen in months. Arthur wants to laugh, which is weird, because he hasn’t laughed at anything in months, either. _It’s like we were never apart_ , he thinks. He’d give almost anything to pretend that that was the case, that he and Curt were still together and that the crisis of the last few months had never happened at all.

That sort of thinking is his third and final mistake. It’s what leads him to reach for Curt’s hand before he can stop himself. He’s not sure which of them makes the first move into that kiss, but he doesn’t have the strength to pull back or to push Curt away, despite dim awareness at the back of his brain that he’ll hate himself for it once they’re done. Arthur has years of experience sleeping with his ex-boyfriends; it’s part of his complete inability to maintain any self-respect in a breakup. It can only hurt him, and yet he lets his mind go blank as he tugs Curt closer, onto the couch with him, and kisses him harder and harder, slipping his hand beneath Curt’s t-shirt to rake at his skin with his nails. Curt takes Arthur’s cigarette from him and stubs it out along with his own. Then Arthur pulls him back, roughly, too impatient to wait any longer. He supposes he’s been too miserable to turn down any pleasure now. That’s how he justifies lying back on the sofa and letting Curt stretch out on top of him, open the front of his jeans, and stroke and tease him to hardness.

“I have a condom,” Curt murmurs, straddling Arthur and sitting up long enough to pull a wrapped condom from his pocket. He offers it to Arthur.

“Good,” Arthur says. It’s as close to a rational thought as he’ll come. He unwraps the condom and puts it on, which is all the encouragement Curt needs. Curt takes Arthur’s cock deep in his mouth and sucks him off until Arthur stifles his moans with his hand and shuts his eyes, afraid that seeing Curt in all his intensity will send him over the edge too soon. He wants to savour being with Curt again, no matter how bad an idea it is – after all, he’s been alone for so long…

He comes a few minutes later, his spine tingling, and can’t suppress the small cry of pleasure.

“Was that good?” Curt whispers. His voice is ragged and his eyes are dark

“You know my answer,” Arthur says, pulling Curt up into another kiss. Curt laughs against Arthur’s lips, then turns his head to whisper in Arthur’s ear.

“You scratched me before. Do it again?”

Arthur obliges, wishing he could draw blood. He watches Curt fumble to free his erection from his jeans, then jerk himself off roughly until he finishes and collapses against Arthur on the sofa. Arthur closes his eyes and holds Curt, spent and strangely happy.


	3. Future

When Arthur wakes up, the first thing he realizes is that Curt’s still there, his body warm against Arthur’s and his calloused fingers running through Arthur’s hair. _Shit,_ Arthur thinks, fighting panic. He starts up, the muscles of his neck protesting at the cramped position he slept in, and scrambles to see where he kicked off his jeans. He spots them on the floor by the sofa, with the edge of the blanket from his bed hanging over them. Arthur realizes that the blanket is draped around him. Curt must have gotten it from the bedroom and tucked Arthur in, as if he were a child. _Fuck, fuck, fuck..._

“What time is it?” Arthur asks.

Curt stands up and steps away, giving Arthur some space to pull his jeans back on and straighten his shirt. It’s a kind, respectful gesture which Arthur would have appreciated more if the last few months had never happened.

“Nine thirty. You slept about an hour and a half.”

That’s pretty good, by Arthur’s standards. But he hasn’t told Curt how fucked up he’s been, with the insomnia and the pills and the depression, and he’s not about to tell him now.

“So what were you doing in all that time?” Arthur asks, picking up the discarded blanket. His neck spasms in pain as he moves; he rubs at it, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. His skin is hot beneath his touch. Something snaps inside him, then – the realization that he should never have let Curt stay this long, and never should have slept with him. He flings the blanket back down to the sofa in frustration.

“Did I give you permission to go through my place?” he demands, before Curt can answer his last question. _Let’s see how good your anger management lessons have been._ “Do I have to check that nothing’s been stolen?”

He notes with satisfaction the hurt that flashes across Curt’s face.

“No, you don’t,” Curt snaps. “Why the fuck would I do that to you now?”

“I don’t know. Ask yourself that, not me.”

Curt clenches his fist and takes a drag on his cigarette. When he speaks again, some of the anger’s gone out of him. Arthur wishes Curt weren’t so in control: it’s hard to hold a grudge when he’s acting so damn reasonable, for a change.

“I’m clean,” Curt says, staring at his cigarette. “I’m not trying to hurt you. Are you done taking shots at me?”

Arthur sits down, breathing hard, and a little ashamed of himself. He should know that Curt goes from acting like a dangerous, wild animal to being more like a desperate, needy child than anything else. Tonight, he has caught Curt in the needy child part of the cycle. Now Arthur’s the one who’s being so petty and vengeful that he keeps on hurting Curt. _I could have told him politely that it’s over, and wished him well. I don’t need to be like this, either…_

“I guess so,” Arthur says. He looks away from Curt and hunts around for his own cigarettes on the coffee table. “I’m sorry.”

“Has it helped? The sarcasm and the fucking pot shots...”

Arthur considers for a moment. “Barely.”

He lights a cigarette and starts to smoke it, partly to calm his nerves, but mainly to avoid talking. He knows he’s not handling tonight well at all. _Understatement of the fucking century._

“Yeah,” Curt murmurs, “it never helped me much, either.” He sighs. “What happened to you? My sensible, mild Arthur…”

“I’m not _yours_ ,” Arthur says, exhaling his smoke. “I’m none of those things. And – as for what happened to me? You should know that. You did.”

“I’m sorry,” Curt says. “But, you know, we were really good together, for a while. I’d give anything to try again.”

Arthur ventures another glance at Curt.

“We’re a disaster together.”

“Not always,” Curt says. He worries at his lip. “Look, if you want me to leave, I will – only, I ordered dinner for us. While you were sleeping. Don’t be mad,” he adds, watching Arthur. Arthur says nothing. What’s he supposed to say? Tonight has been so surreal that he doesn’t know if he should laugh outright or have some sort of nervous break down. All things considered, he has held together better than he would have expected.

“I figured I’d take some initiative, but I can leave it, if you want – you take the other sandwich to work tomorrow. I don’t care.”

 _You obviously_ do _care, or you wouldn’t be putting up with my shit,_ Arthur thinks. God, part of him would take Curt back right now, despite the fact that he can’t forgive him or trust him – which would be one hell of a basis for a relationship _._

“What did you order?” he asks. “Since I seem to be stuck with you.”

“You don’t have to be,” Curt offers.

Arthur shrugs. He wants to believe that Curt is trying to be kind to him rather than forcing his presence on Arthur, who hasn’t exactly said no, either.

“I got a couple club sandwiches; that’s it.”

“What sandwich place near here delivers?”

Arthur knows of no such restaurant close to him, which is a shame: he’s sick of Chinese food and pizza, but can’t be bothered to grocery shop.

A sly grin tugs at Curt’s mouth.

“I had to call a few places before I found one that would,” he explains. “It gave me something to do – find somewhere where they’d make an exception for Curt Wild, fresh out of rehab.” His grin broadens, showing his teeth in a way that makes Arthur tense. “The guy who answered must have been a fan. He sounded cute, too; I hope he’s the one delivering.”

Arthur used to love Curt’s brazen and inappropriate humour. It turns his stomach now.

“That’s disgusting,” he says, coldly. “How can you say that to me – tonight?”

“Relax – it’s _me,_ you know?”

“Yeah, well, maybe you were right when you said we shouldn’t be together,” Arthur says. _I almost thought you’d learned something, too, you idiot._ Then again, Arthur’s also an idiot, between wanting Curt back, and the smoking and the sleeping pills and the bills he has fallen behind on. He couldn’t have done worse if he’d taken lessons in stupidity and self-destructiveness. _I’m fucking turning into Curt…_

“Sorry,” Curt says again. The petty glee he’d displayed seconds ago has drained from his voice. “I –I stand by what I said that you’re probably better off without me, but I’m not better off without you.”

“That’s not my problem anymore,” Arthur counters. “I’ve _done_ my time being involved with you. I’m too tired to go back to that.”

“Even if I could keep it together?” Curt asks. He’s back to being needy and pleading. Arthur wonders if the power dynamic between them might be shifting, if Curt wants him back this much – if, perhaps, he could keep Curt in line now. But the last time he tried that was a disastrous failure.

“Again,” Arthur says, “how many times have you said that in your life, and how many previous versions of me had to listen to it?”

There’s a knock at the door before Curt can reply. Arthur glares at Curt.

“I’ll deal with this, since I can’t even trust you with the fucking delivery guy…”

He stands up. Curt offers him his wallet.

“Here; I told you it’s my treat –”

Arthur snatches the wallet from Curt’s hands, wordlessly, and opens the door. A scrawny, pimply kid is waiting in the doorway for Arthur, holding a large paper bag and folding the top of it over and over on itself.

“How much will this be?” Arthur asks, trying not to bite the poor kid’s head off despite the kid craning his neck to look around Arthur’s apartment – looking for Curt, of course. Arthur grinds his teeth.

The delivery boy stammers a price without meeting Arthur’s gaze. As Arthur pays him, the boy adds, “I was… I was told on the phone that I was talking to Curt Wild…?”

Curt stands up at that, and draws closer to Arthur.

“That’s me,” he says. “Do you want an autograph?”

The kid’s face lights up. Arthur says nothing, and tries not to look quite as stupid or as useless as he feels, standing there by the door while Curt works his magic on someone else.

“Here, give me the receipt to sign,” Curt says, with a glance at Arthur instead of the delivery boy. “Who am I signing this to?”

“Huh?”

“Your name? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Oh. It’s Chris, thanks.”

“Great,” Curt mutters, and signs a quick message on the receipt from the restaurant. “Now, Chris, I need you to fuck off and go home, okay?”

Classic Curt Wild generosity, despite being rushed or nervous or angry. When Curt’s clean, he’s the kindest man anyone could hope to meet. Arthur remembers that well. Arthur used to wish he could be as generous, not that he has or is likely to have anything worth giving away, except the occasional press pass to a concert or other event that someone else might find cool. He slumps against the wall, thinking of the first night he met Curt – well, the second, really – and a little girl who was so grateful to be given Arthur’s crumpled Tommy Stone tour press pass in a bar. Maybe Arthur would be better off now if he’d left right after that incident, or never set foot in that bar in the first place, or never noticed Curt sitting there.

“Thanks, man,” Chris gushes, like an idiot. Arthur hopes _he_ was never like that, though he probably was, and he may never have _stopped_ , or grown up.

“No problem, now I said fuck off,” Curt says, ushering the kid out the door. His eyes meet Arthur’s as soon as they’re alone, with the door shut behind Chris.

“See?” he says. “Not a disaster.”

Arthur says, acidly, “I wish you'd taken him up to the rooftop and fucked him, then filled _his_ head with nonsense about how good you'd be together. I'd like to see him or anyone else do for you what I’ve done.”

Curt’s face goes white. “I _wouldn’t_. Stop fucking accusing me…”

“Why?” Arthur snaps. “Isn’t that what you wanted – to turn me into the pathetic, nagging TV wife, or the ball and chain around your ankle?” He clenches his hand, crumpling the top of the paper bag. “I hate the person I become when I’m around you.”

He sits down at the kitchen table and tries to ignore Curt, who insists on following him.

“I’m sorry if I – threatened you, or whatever,” Curt says. “Really. I was _kidding._ ”

Arthur doesn’t look at Curt. The silence hanging over them is so heavy that Arthur imagines he could reach out and touch it.

Curt goes on, “I want to ask you something my therapist suggested – what’s your best case scenario for us? Because if it’s that I fuck off and never bother you again, I’ll do it, I promise.”

Arthur hesitates before answering. The smell of the food makes his mouth water; he hasn’t eaten all day. He fumbles for an ashtray in the clutter of the table so he can have both hands free. When he finds the ashtray under a stack of bills, he remembers buying it for Curt’s use when he and Arthur started dating. Arthur winces at the memory as he stubs out his cigarette, then opens the paper bag from the restaurant, takes out one sandwich, and hands the other to Curt, making sure not to touch him. He wolfs down a few bites of his meal and considers how to answer Curt’s question. He can’t _tell_ Curt his best case scenario – never having met Curt at all, maybe, or signing up for the imaginary psychiatric treatment to remove all traces of Curt from his brain. Of course, when he and Curt first got together, and Arthur was so, inexplicably, naive, he would have said that the best case scenario was staying together despite all the odds. _A happy fucking ending. Yeah, right._

“I don’t know what the best case could have been,” Arthur says. “Before, I might have said that we – we could have a few good years, not ruin each other’s lives, and end on friendly terms…”

“I meant your best case _now_ ,” Curt prods him. “Anyway, does the friendly breakup thing ever happen? Has it ever happened to you?”

 _No_ , Arthur thinks. It’s part of the sad, fucked up pattern that has led him to tonight and to Curt. Arthur wasted so much of his life in love with a vague daydream about Curt Wild that he threw over several perfectly decent boyfriends who might have loved him if he’d given them half a chance. But Arthur was too indifferent and too distracted thanks to the fantasy Curt had sold him. He thinks of Paul, his first real boyfriend after his groupie phase, and how Arthur had acted like he was too good for him. He’d provoked cruelty in one of the mildest people he’d ever known, a man who somehow tracked down Arthur’s number in New York when he was dying so he could say goodbye to Arthur and apologize for how badly things had ended years before. Arthur had been twenty years old at the time and desperately broke and needy. When Paul finally got tired of him and kicked him out, it was like Arthur’s parents all over again. Once it was too late, Arthur had tried everything to win back Paul and the decent, middle-class flat where they’d lived together – another humiliating mess for Arthur. And yet, through it all, part of him had taken comfort in the fact that that relationship was just temporary, just what he needed to survive, and that he might still someday get his happy ending with Curt Wild of all people. It was idiotic – selfish and idiotic.

He realizes he’s no longer hungry, and puts down his sandwich. _You’re the furthest thing from my happy ending,_ he thinks at Curt, wishing he had the nerve to say as much out loud. _You’re my hell._

“Earth to Arthur Stuart,” Curt says, intruding on Arthur’s thoughts. Arthur glares at him.

“It’s like you left the room. Didn’t go anywhere _good_ , either.”

“I _didn’t_ ,” Arthur says. “Look, why are you putting up with me? We’re not resolving anything; all I’m doing is insulting you, and I don’t know why you’re taking it. You were never the submissive type.”

He sneers as he says it. Curt takes a deep drag of smoke.

“Because of the two of us, you’re nicer and you’re better than me –”

Arthur laughs bitterly. “I’m really not. We’ve been involved for too long to lie about ourselves and each other.”

“I meant that,” Curt insists, “and I thought that, if you could vent and get it out of your system, there’d be a hope in hell we could work through this.”

“We’re a lost cause.”

Curt flinches in a way that makes Arthur wish he hadn’t said anything.

“That, and I missed you so much that I’d rather get yelled at or sworn at than not see you at all.”

 _Thanks_ , Arthur thinks. He can’t imagine how to respond.

“I’m not saying I need you to stay clean,” Curt adds. “I know you’re not responsible for that, and I’ll be okay on my own, but –” He puts a tentative hand on Arthur’s knee – “I really missed you.”

The pain in his voice makes Arthur’s throat tighten. He stares down at Curt’s hand on his leg, remembering what it feels like to be that starved for affection. He reacted almost the same way sometimes when he was a kid and his father was angry at him. Arthur’s father seldom shouted, except for that day when he threw Arthur out. For most of his life, Arthur remembers his dad being about as quiet as he was. That meant that when he was upset with Arthur, he tended to use his silence as a weapon, and would make Arthur go to him to learn how bad he’d been. Listening to his father scolding him was far better than being ignored or excluded from the family. Arthur remembers thinking that maybe, if he could get his dad to tell him what he’d done wrong, there was a hope in hell that he could improve and avoid that awful cold shoulder in the future. He practically basked in the insults and the disapproval after long periods of stony silence. He didn’t think it was anything to do with his sexuality; he was in primary school when it used to happen the most, so his dad couldn’t have known for sure, and – to his credit – Arthur did grow a small bit of pride as he got older and stopped caring as much about his family. He suspects that if he could afford therapy, they’d tell him he was already being abused at that age. Now Curt’s describing the same thing, with Arthur playing the role of his dad.

Arthur swallows hard and pushes away from the table. He thinks, _I_ deserve _Curt Wild_. Maybe he does – and not the Curt he first met, or this new, sober Curt who goes to therapy and hasn’t so much as looked at alcohol in months, but the man who stole from Arthur and put him at risk of AIDS and God knows what else through reckless sex and sharing needles, and who abandoned Arthur on dates to shoot heroin or fuck other people in the bathroom. He might deserve the worst things Curt has ever done to him, or that Arthur ever feared he was doing, which is part of why he doesn’t pull away from Curt’s touch this time.

He blinks, shifting in his seat. _Stop it,_ he tells himself. _Stop_ thinking _shit like that…_

Curt is still speaking, without realizing that Arthur hasn’t been listening.

“My best case scenario would be that I stay clean, and stop hurting myself and you,” he says, “and maybe we could take things a day or a week at a time.”

“You said there was no future for us,” Arthur reminds him.

Curt stares at him without answering. There’s a heartbeat in which Arthur worries that he’ll say something ridiculous, something that will only make things worse for both of them, like _I love you_ , but he doesn’t go that far.

“I wasn’t in my right mind when I said it,” he replies. Arthur bites back a sarcastic remark. “If we take things one day at a time –” He exhales his smoke. “I don’t know; maybe we’ll beat the odds, and someday I’ll be an old fart with decades of royalties that I’ll leave to you in my will, as my long-term boyfriend.”

 _Great_ , _now you can be a life sentence for me,_ Arthur thinks. _And if I’m very lucky, I can be one for you._ He has no reason to believe that Curt will stay clean, or that the future will be any easier or better for them. It’s more likely to be an endless cycle of Curt falling off the wagon, using Arthur, and then leaving him until there’s nothing left of Arthur at all: he’s all used up.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Arthur says, “I don’t know if I can forgive you, or try again.”

Even a life sentence might be too optimistic a phrase to describe their relationship: it might be more like a slow suicide pact, in which they would only drag each other down. Arthur just doesn’t want to tell Curt outright. He knows Curt’s sobriety is too fragile for him to be told point blank that it won’t last, which Arthur has already done, because he, too, can be a selfish, spiteful piece of shit.

“Anyway, you were so unhappy with me that you started using heroin again –”

“Don’t say that,” Curt tells him, moving his hand up to Arthur’s arm. “That was my fuck up, not yours.”

Arthur _wants_ to believe Curt, more than he can say. He lets Curt take his hand – another mistake that may prove fatal.

“Fine,” he murmurs.

“Did you really mean that – about hating yourself when you’re with me?”

Curt sounds utterly broken. What can Arthur do except shake his head and soften the blow as much as possible?

“Not always,” he says. It’s true enough, he supposes. “And it’s not only when I’m with you.”

“I hate to say this – don’t get mad – but would _you_ consider therapy?”

Curt tenses, probably expecting another sarcastic outburst.

“I know I must sound like I’m proselytizing, and I expected it to be condescending bullshit, but –”

Arthur cuts him off.

“Maybe.” He’s amazed at how steady his voice is.

Curt leans toward him, cups Arthur’s face in his hand, and kisses him. Arthur’s glad to accept. There’s something tender and comforting in Curt’s touch, although Curt needs those things as much as Arthur does, if not more. It’s the depth of generosity.

“I wish you’d reconsider that trip idea,” Curt says when he ends the kiss. “Give me a chance for one weekend, please?”

 _Stop being so sweet to me,_ Arthur thinks, turning away. _I’ve half-succumbed already._

“I’ll think about it, but I can’t make that decision now.”

“Then let me call you,” Curt insists. “I’m sorry I was out of touch – I was a little scared, to be honest, and I’ve been doing everything wrong…”

Actually, Curt has done a lot of things _right_. At least, he has done a lot of things right today. That’s why Arthur’s mere inches away from forgiving him, though he shouldn’t be. When Curt leaves, after they finish their sandwiches in unexpectedly calm silence (what else is there to say?), Arthur sighs, and thinks of how muddled he’s made everything. It’s like he’s achieved nothing tonight except to fill out a whole fucking Bingo card of bad ideas. He has made himself more confused and more deeply entwined with Curt than ever, and has led Curt on by sleeping with him and almost agreeing to that stupid weekend getaway – and Arthur _still_ looks forward to hearing from Curt, like he’s been given a second chance at something wonderful instead of a hell on earth.

*

It’s late at night when Arthur takes the initiative and calls Curt at his new number. Arthur’s as tired as ever and quite sure he’ll regret this decision, but he can’t help it. It’s like Curt’s _his_ addiction. The cliché’s an embarrassing one, even in Arthur’s head, but it’s true: he can’t stay away from Curt for long the same way Curt can’t stay clean for long.

Arthur has, however, been trying to put things in perspective. Of course he’s wary of giving Curt a second chance. Curt’s explanations and promises were inadequate at best, no matter how sad and affectionate he was the other night. Arthur taking him back represents the triumph of hope over experience, or maybe it’s the triumph of Arthur being really damaged and fucked up over him being able to learn a lesson or make a sane decision. But Arthur hasn’t been thinking properly for months. Perhaps he had no business falling apart because Curt was _mean_ to him, when he knows people his age who are dying horrible deaths around him. What right did Arthur have to lie about moping for weeks because of a fight with his boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend? He _may_ have been acting like an overgrown and selfish teenager. He can’t tell, anymore than he can tell what will come of calling Curt. He might come back from this trip ready to end things with Curt once and for all, or he might come back and no longer want to: he doesn’t know yet.

The phone rings for a few seconds before Curt answers it.

“Hello?” Curt says.

Arthur swallows hard.

“Hi – Um – Curt?”

“Arthur.”

Arthur can almost hear the smile in Curt’s voice. _Shit. I can’t back out now._

“I hope I’m not waking you or anything,” Arthur says, winding the phone cord between his fingers. There’s a sharp pain in his stomach, hunger pangs. Dinner – a can of soup – was hours ago. He’d like to think he’s feeling somewhat better, now that he’s more aware of his appetite, but that explanation seems too optimistic. He does, however, want to gain back the weight he lost, just to make sure that he can. Absently, he eyes the bag of apples he bought at the grocery store, in one of the few good decisions he has made in ages. He can’t reach them from the corner he’s standing in: he’ll have to get one when he’s off the phone.

“It’s fine,” Curt replies, bringing Arthur back to their conversation. “How are you?”

Arthur listens for any sign of unease in Curt’s voice. He finds none. _Come on_ , he thinks, _you can’t be that optimistic_ – _that sure I’m taking you back._ Then again, why else would Arthur have called him?

“I’m okay. Listen, I was thinking about – about what you said…”

“Yeah?”

Now Curt sounds a little nervous, or at least, a little too eager. Arthur’s at a loss about how to proceed. He rehearsed this conversation in his mind a dozen times tonight, and yet, nothing he came up with satisfied him.

“I was thinking about that trip idea,” he manages. “I could do a weekend.”

“That’s great,” Curt says. Arthur hesitates.

“I’m not saying that we’re back together or that I forgive you, but we can see how it goes for a day and a half…”

“Make it two days,” Curt says. “Two whole days. We can drive somewhere Friday night –”

“I work late,” Arthur says, as firmly as he can. “We could go somewhere Saturday afternoon, come back late Sunday, and see how we get on.” _See if we manage not to kill each other._

“Saturday morning? I’ve missed you, and I’m so fucking _bored_...”

Arthur grimaces. He remembers what Curt said to him during their last row before those devastating weeks of silence. _Fighting with you gives me something to do, since I can’t get high._ He wonders if that’s all Curt has ever seen in him, a distraction from boredom when he’s off drugs and can’t be bothered to pick up someone else yet. That thought leads him to wonder why he’s calling Curt at all.

“I’d like to see you get out of bed before noon,” Arthur mutters. It’s mild compared to what he might have said, but he can’t keep the edge of sarcasm from stealing into his voice.

“I’d do it for you,” Curt promises.

 _What a heroic sacrifice,_ Arthur thinks, but he relents.

“Fine, Saturday morning, and I – I’m afraid I need you to pay.”

A pause.

“That’s fine, but are you okay – with money, I mean? You keep saying things –”

“I'm _fine_ ,” Arthur snaps, before realizing that that's one lie too far. “It’s nothing to do with you; I had some – dental bills.”

His second lie is no better. Arthur bites his lip, wishing he’d thought through what he would say if Curt asked _why_ he was so tight-fisted. He should have known it would come up.

Curt doesn't answer for a while. Arthur thinks he can hear the hiss of his lighter over the phone.

“Okay,” Curt says, at length. “Sounds suspicious, but okay – although if you want me to be honest with you, I think you should do the same with me.”

 _Shit_.

“I'll explain later. Not now.”

“Fine. Do you know where you want to go?”

“I have a place in mind,” says Arthur. He knows he must sound far too eager himself, if he’s already put thought into this stupid trip. “Rhinecliff; it’s about two hours out of town.”

“Great,” Curt says. “Can we go this weekend?”

Now Arthur will _definitely_ sound too eager, and probably get Curt’s hopes up too high, if he says yes. He will, though: he, too, wants to get away from things, and pretend to be happy.

“All right,” he says.

Once again, he imagines the smile on Curt’s face.

“Great. How do you want to plan out the details? Or should I just meet you Saturday morning?”

*

On Friday after work, Arthur fills an old duffel bag with a change of clothes, a pack of cigarettes, and a box of condoms. That takes him all of ten minutes, which leaves the rest of the night to lie awake second-guessing his decision. He can’t shake the thought that taking this trip with Curt is the opposite of what he _should_ be doing. What Arthur should be doing, instead, is figuring out who he is and what his life might be like without his doomed love for Curt Wild looming over him. But backing out now would mean breaking Curt’s heart, and he can’t bring himself to do that, even when the thought of calling and trying to wheedle out of this stupid trip is almost irresistible.

He falls into a light sleep. When he wakes up, it’s after four in the morning, and Arthur still has hours to kill before he’s supposed to meet Curt. He wishes the bars hadn’t closed. There’s nothing to drink in his flat and he’s not sure he’ll be able to cope with Curt sober. Before, when they were together, Curt became pretty much all of Arthur’s social life, and Arthur knows the same thing will happen if they get back together, so Curt giving up drinking effectively means Arthur doing the same. Arthur doesn’t know how he feels about that. Then again, he can’t sabotage Curt by being drunk or high around him, and the bars and liquor stores _are_ closed, so he’ll have to manage.

Eventually, he falls back asleep. He wakes up again with little time to spare before meeting Curt and being taken for a literal ride by the love of his life and, at the same time, his own personal hell on earth.

Curt’s running early. Arthur sees him waving from the window of the rental car, which is blocking the hydrant near Arthur’s apartment. Arthur tries to grin, though he can only manage a tight grimace as he opens the back passenger door to dump his bag. Curt has not one but two guitar cases strewn across the back seat, so there isn’t much room for anything else. Arthur stows his bag on the floor, wondering what new music Curt wants to show off to him. He can hear the Rolling Stones blaring on the radio, _wild horses couldn’t drag me away._ How appropriate.

“Hey,” Curt says when Arthur sits down beside him. He sounds utterly normal, although it’s jarring to see him behind the wheel of a car. That’s the first thing Arthur notices. The second is the hesitant but loving smile on Curt’s face when he looks at Arthur, who softens at once. He feels rather guilty for having been so cynical, so pessimistic, and marvels at how quickly he has tried to forget the hell Curt put him through.

“Thanks for being early,” Arthur murmurs, at a loss for words.

Curt accepts the greeting readily enough. His smile twists, becoming more sardonic.

“Hey, I wouldn’t so much as put a toe out of line. Like I said, you’re kind of scary when you’re angry.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. Curt hands him a paper bag and a Styrofoam coffee cup. Arthur can smell something fresh-baked and tantalizing inside the bag, a muffin from a coffee shop near where Curt used to live: he recognizes the crumpled up logo on the bag. Curt must have gone quite a bit out of his way to get it this morning, since the shop is nowhere near his current place.

“I got you breakfast from that place you like,” Curt explains. “Or used to like. I assume you still do.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says. “But you know you can’t buy me back, so don’t worry about trying.”

“I’m not.” Curt shifts the car into drive, his smile fading. “I just wanted to treat you.”

“I know,” Arthur says. “But I don’t need you to spend a lot of money on me. I know the last few months were hard on you, too.”

Curt shrugs.

“I can afford to get you coffee,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re here – glad that you came at all.” He spots a gap in the traffic and veers into the street, his face breaking into a smile again, as if he and Arthur were still together, and things were still all right, still normal. Arthur takes a sip of his coffee, nearly spilling it all over his jacket.

“It’s too sweet,” he complains.

“You look like you need it,” Curt counters. “It’s part of my un-fucking things – I put you through hell, and I bet you’ve been too sad to eat properly because of me.”

“Well,” Arthur says, dryly, “you’re trying, but that theory assumes that my life, and maybe the whole world, revolve around you.”

“Oh, come on, was I wrong?”

Arthur stares out the window. “No.”

A brief silence falls. Curt breaks it by asking, “So, what the fuck’s in Rhinecliff?”

 _Shit_ , Arthur thinks. _You won’t like this part…_

“It’s out of the way, like you wanted – but there’s an AmTrak station.” Arthur bites his lip. Beside him, Curt sighs.

“I’m sorry, Curt, but if this goes south, we shouldn’t be stranded together in the middle of nowhere with no way out.”

He ventures a glance at Curt. Curt scowls, and takes a few puffs on his cigarette before answering, but stays calm.

“Fine,” he says. “I told you to pick the place, for whatever reason, so that’s fine, if it’s your – condition.”

“It _is_.”

And that’s as awkward as the drive gets. At one point, when they’re far enough from the city to drive at a proper highway speed, and late autumn trees line the road, their leaves bright and beautiful and dying, Curt glances at Arthur and says, “I promise I’m fine, you know. I’ve been on methadone for so long I’m way past feeling any side effects from it.”

Arthur doesn’t want to pick a fight, and he supposes he can trust Curt on that point, at least, so he nods. Then they’re laughing about the radio, Curt alternating between singing along when there’s a solid song playing, and muttering in disgust or fiddling with the dial when he can’t find anything good.

“Will you _drive_?” Arthur asks once, partly because Curt’s veering between lanes has started to make him queasy, and partly out of curiosity, to test Curt. “I’ll find us a decent station, all right?”

To his surprise Curt obeys him. He wonders how much longer this tame, sensible, respectful Curt will last, and whether the boredom of being out in the country will do them in. But Curt is relentless in his optimism. He’s talkative, too, by his standards, and fills Arthur in on what he’s been doing with his time.

“You know, I’ve almost signed a contract to do that commercial,” he tells Arthur. “A fucking Honda scooter. I might die of shame before I can cash my cheque.” But he’s laughing as he says it. “I should write a will, and leave you the big bucks I’m supposed to make from this thing.”

Arthur shakes his head and leans back in his seat. He doesn’t know why Curt talks as if Arthur’s all he has in life. Surely there must be, or _could_ be, someone better? Not that Arthur wants to get into that discussion right now…

“I’m pretty sure you’ve survived worse,” he says. “Nine lives, remember?”

Curt moves onto talking about things he’s proud of – the music he’s writing, the apartment he’s about to lease, and how much the therapy is helping him. ( _I wish you’d pay for me to go, too_ , Arthur thinks, but he’ll never ask. Curt would agree in a heartbeat, and where would that leave them? What would Arthur do when they split up again and he needed the support more than ever?) They stop for lunch at a bakery in some roadside town, where Curt impulse buys chocolate chip cookies right out of the oven and insists that Arthur eat some, too.

Later, when they finally reach and check into their hotel, they spend a long time having slow, tender sex in their room, the kind of sex that could trick Arthur into thinking they’re in love and have some sort of connection between them that makes all the risk worthwhile. It’s hard for Arthur to hate Curt or himself when things are going so well.

That night, after more sex and dinner (pizza eaten out of the box while laughing about it, like raccoons with a fucking trash can), neither of them can get to sleep. Arthur suggests a walk around the grounds to pass the time.

“Sure,” Curt says: he’s not about to deny Arthur anything. He gets dressed and pulls on his leather jacket to go outside, but stops in the hotel bathroom to take his evening dose of methadone before he can forget. It’s the only chemical either of them has touched this trip, other than cigarettes. Arthur didn’t even bring his Valium.

He looks away from Curt taking his methadone and focuses on zipping up his own jacket. He doesn’t know how he feels about the methadone, if he trusts Curt when he says it helps him, or if Curt has simply replaced one addiction with another. The sight of Curt taking the drug reminds Arthur of how fragile Curt’s sobriety is, too. He hates to think what he would do if Curt started using heroin again, if he should leave Curt right away, and for good, or go into damage control mode and keep after Curt to sterilize his needles and try not to steal from him or anyone else.

“Come on,” Curt says. Arthur keeps his expression neutral, and they go outside into the night together. Arthur’s grateful that their room’s on the ground floor, so they don’t have to deal with people staring at them in the elevator every time they go anywhere.

“You’re quiet,” Curt remarks, after a few minutes of walking around aimlessly in the cool autumn night.

“I’m always quiet,” Arthur says. He was thinking that he liked it here, and that he’d enjoy it more if he weren’t dreading any serious questions from Curt.

“It’s nice out here,” he adds.

Even in the dark he can see the smile pulling at Curt’s mouth, then faltering.

“Are you glad you came?”

Arthur turns his head away. He _is_ glad. That’s the problem: he loves being with Curt, and he loves pretending that things might work out for them. A lovely, peaceful place like this one makes it so easy to pretend.

“I guess,” he replies, barely audible over the night wind and the chirping of crickets in the trees. They really did come out to the middle of nowhere. The night is darker here than Arthur’s seen it in years, and if it weren’t for the stone path leading back to the hotel, flanked by garden lights and dying rose bushes that haven’t yet been covered up for winter, they might be alone in the whole world. _What a world that would be._

Curt reaches for his hand. It’s private enough that Arthur wouldn’t dream of minding.

“Are you happier?” Curt asks. Arthur has to hide his grimace. Of course he’s happier than he was: the bar has been set so low for him, and for Curt, that anything would be an improvement. But to say that he’s happy? He and Curt are probably far too damaged for that.

“Can I have a smoke – please? I left mine in the room…”

Curt digs in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes and his lighter and offers them to Arthur.

“I have a feeling I’m not gonna like this,” he says, but when Arthur reaches for the cigarette, he runs his thumb along Arthur’s wrist. Arthur can’t meet Curt’s eyes. He wants to say that he’s perfectly happy, provided he can ignore the past, forget the whole concept of a future, and blot out the fact that he’s not sure he trusts Curt yet, or ever will again.

“I don’t know,” he says, hoping he’s being vague enough not to detonate Curt’s hopes and his own. “I’m better than I was, and in some ways I really do want to try again, but I – I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you.”

“Give me that second chance,” Curt begs him. “Everyone deserves one.”

 _I already did_. Arthur suppresses the words with difficulty: his pain and the memory of the last few months are too raw in his mind.

“Not always,” he murmurs, though he tries to keep his tone light and calm, like he’s just teasing. It’s not good enough. Curt hisses in annoyance or disappointment and drops Arthur's hand abruptly, as if driven away from him by an electric shock.


End file.
